


5 Times Harley Quinn Failed at Making Spaghetti for Ivy, and the One Time She Didn't (Because She Ordered Out)

by Calacious



Category: Harley Quinn (Cartoon 2019)
Genre: Bad Italian Accent, Cooking nightmares, Domestic Fluff, Drinking, F/F, Girls in Love, Kidnapping, Kissing, Love, Swearing, Yuletide 2020, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:54:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28127220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calacious/pseuds/Calacious
Summary: Harley wants to make Ivy's favorite food. The problem is, she's not all that great at making spaghetti. Give her a cake over pasta anytime, and she's aces. Still, she loves Ivy and will do whatever it takes to make her happy.
Relationships: Harley Quinn/Poison Ivy
Comments: 8
Kudos: 44
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	1. Sentient Spaghetti - It Lives

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blossomisley (viudanegra)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/viudanegra/gifts).



> I hope that you enjoy this crazy little story. I tried to incorporate a little bit of most of your ideas and likes into this.  
> ▸ Domestic fics with an established couple / a day in the life kind of fics  
> ▸ Pregnancy / parenthood AU  
> Cheftide  
> Harley learning how to cook Ivy's favorite childhood dish even though she's generally not a good cook just to prove how much she cares for her and loves her. 
> 
> Happy Yuletide!

[ Sentient Spaghetti ](https://www.delish.com/cooking/g3086/spaghetti/?slide=46)

The first time that Harley tries her hand at making spaghetti for Ivy, they have to move away from their brand new apartment or face the potential wrath of Harley’s creation.

“Uh, Harls, what...is this?” Ivy’s nose wrinkles as she holds up a fork filled with something that looks like a cross between blue mush and octopus spaghetti. She sniffs the concoction, and puts down the fork, going even greener than she normally is (which is pretty green).

“You’re favorite, spaghetti and meatballs,” Harley says enthusiastically. Her face falls when she takes a forkful and gives it an experimental sniff of her own, only to drop the fork and push the plate away. 

“Ew,” she says, glaring at the food.

Ivy blinks at the spaghetti, which looks like it might actually be moving, and then glances over at her girlfriend. Harley is on the verge of crying, but whether they’ll be tears of frustration or tears because she’s worried she’s disappointed Ivy is anyone’s guess.

Ivy reaches for Harley’s hand, and squeezes it. “Thanks, babe,” she says. “I love that you tried to make my favorite dish and all, but you know I’m not going to eat any of this. Right?”

Harley sniffs and pokes at the failed spaghetti, and then lets out a startled scream when the spaghetti moves. 

“Shit, did that meatball just wink at us? I think that meatball winked at us,” Ivy says, pushing away from the table, and grabbing Harley to pull her out of the room.

“Fuck, that noodle just slithered off the plate. Babe, what the actual fuck?” Ivy isn’t angry, truth is, she’s a little frightened at the possibly sentient meal that her girlfriend made for her. 

She’s okay with plants, knows how to work with and manipulate them, but whatever it is that Harley’s made clearly has a mind of its own, and Ivy has no way of communicating with it.

“Huh, maybe I shouldn’t’ve used that meat substitute from Ace Chemicals,” Harley says as they carefully make their way out of the dining room, backing out so they can keep an eye on the undulating spaghetti that has fully stood up on the plate and propped up two meatballs that appear to be following their movements like a pair of eyes. 

“I think it’s time to move,” Ivy says, inwardly cursing the thought of leaving their new apartment so shortly after having moved in. 

“This place was getting boring anyway,” Harley says, quickly packing up everything that will fit into her arms, and rushing for the door.

Neither of them look back, though a slurping sound can be heard through the door that they slammed on the way out, and it feels like they are being watched. 


	2. The Spaghetti Pie Disaster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second time that Harley tries to make spaghetti for Ivy, they end up making out with a fireman with a very big hose (and yes, that is a euphemism).

[ The Spaghetti Pie Disaster ](https://www.delish.com/cooking/g3086/spaghetti/?slide=15)

There’s smoke billowing from the kitchen, and Ivy places a hand over her mouth and nose as she enters the room in search of Harley who went into the kitchen over an hour ago and has not come out. There’s so much smoke that she’s afraid she won’t be able to find Harley at all.

Ivy uses the sound of coughing, and cursing to guide her to her girlfriend who is batting at the smoke with a pair of oven mitts that Jennifer had given them for Hanukkah. The oven door is wide open, and there’s acrid black smoke rolling out of it, engulfing Harley.

The smoke makes Ivy’s eyes water, and she grips Harley by the arm and tugs her girlfriend from the midst of the smoke. The fire alarm starts blaring before Ivy can open the windows. The smoke sets off the apartment’s sprinkler system, which Ivy’s plants will love, but will wreak havoc on the plush velour of the couch that she and Harley had broken in just the other night.

“Fuck,” Ivy says when the living room window fails to open. Harley is working at the other one, and it, too, is proving useless as far as windows are concerned, which means they will be moving, again. 

Harley uses one of her oven mitt clad hands to punch a hole through the window, sending glass flying everywhere, but making a hole for the smoke to exit their apartment. Her hair and tee-shirt are soaked, and her makeup is running, and she’s got a thin line of blood trickling down her leg from a tiny shard of glass that embedded itself into her thigh. 

“I’m so sorry, Pammy,” Harley says through a cough that sounds like she’s hacking up half a lung. 

“It’s okay, Harls,” Ivy says, as she gathers her girlfriend into her arms and leads her to the ruined couch. She focuses on the task of removing the shard of glass, and kissing the wound, licking the blood from her lips.

There’s water raining down on them, and they’re both shivering, and Harley still has those silly oven mitts on her hands, but Ivy’s never wanted someone more than she has at this very moment. She leans in to steal a proper kiss, not caring that they’re probably going to lose their deposit when they move.

The fire department chooses the exact moment that Ivy’s got her hand down Harley’s pants to knock down their door, sending it crashing to the floor with a resounding thud. She pulls back, and bites back a groan at the intrusion. Harley whimpers at the loss of contact, and scowls at the intruders, who stand there, staring. 

“We’re definitely losing our deposit,” Ivy mutters, and she glares at a fireman who is standing there, staring at the two of them.

The fireman blushes and looks down at his boots. “Uh, are you two okay?” he asks shyly.

The other firemen have made their way into the kitchen, and they make quick work of reducing the smoke. The alarm finally stops ringing, though Ivy swears she can still hear the ringing in her head, and the sprinklers give one final sputter of water before turning off.

“Do we _ look _ okay?” Ivy asks, raising a single eyebrow. 

The fireman swallows, and glances at them nervously. “You look--”

“We look like a couple of drowned rats,” Harley interrupts. She runs a soaked oven mitt through her hair, and grimaces before pulling the oven mitts off and tossing them across the room. She glares at them as if they were at fault for everything that happened.

“Well, I was going to say--”

“You make an adorable drowned rat,” Ivy interrupts. She brushes a wet lock of hair behind Harley’s ear. 

The fireman blinks, and clears his throat. “Uh, you can stay at my place,” he blurts, and blushes when both of them turn to look at him. “I mean,” he clears his throat again and brushes at the hair at the back of his neck. “If you need a place to stay while this place,” he gestures around at the water-stained furniture, and the puddles of water on the wood floors, the fallen door and the broken window. “Uh, while this place is being, you know uh--”

“Oh, Ivy, look at the pretty way he blushes. He’s so adorable. Can we keep him?” Harley asks, bouncing on the couch, ignoring the squelching sound that it makes. 

Ivy stares long and hard at the still blushing fireman, who can’t quite make eye contact with her. “Hmm,” she says, and chuckles when the man swallows thickly. 

He moves his hand to cover the evidence of his mounting interest in whatever Ivy has to say on the matter, clearly unperturbed by the idea of Harley wanting to keep him, and more than a little excited at the prospect. It is kind of adorable, in a human sort of way.

“For a little while,” Ivy says, smiling when Harley kisses her on the cheek, and the fireman’s blush turns firetruck red.

“Looks like a small kitchen fire started because of this,” one of the firemen who’d gone into the kitchen says. He enters the room completely unaware of the sexual tension permeating it. He holds a pan in his hands, and whatever has been in it is charred beyond recognition.

“It was supposed to be a surprise,” Harley says, shoulders sagging. “For our one month disaster free apartment anniversary.”

“What is it?” Ivy asks, remembering the last thing that Harley had tried to make for her and shuddering at the recollection. She wonders whatever became of the living spaghetti, and hopes that it never tracks them down, looking for its maker.

“Spaghetti pie,” Harley says. “I found this really cool recipe on Ana Kam’s Cooking in Arkham website and thought I’d surprise you with it.”

“Well, I can’t say I’m not surprised,” Ivy says, and she leans forward to kiss Harley, not caring that they’ve got an audience.

“The offer still stands,” the fireman says, as the others, having done their jobs, start to file out of the apartment. 

“What do you say, Harley?” Ivy asks. “Want to give...” she searches for the name stitched on the uniform of their would-be rescuer and laughs. “Want to give Dick a try?”


	3. Surprise! It's Spaghetti Pizza

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The third time that Harley attempts to make spaghetti for Ivy, they get to keep their brand spanking new apartment, but they do have to replace some of their best silverware.

[ Surprise! It’s Spaghetti Pizza ](https://www.delish.com/cooking/g3086/spaghetti/?slide=28)

“Close your eyes,” Harley says, and Ivy rolls her eyes, but eventually closes them. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”

Ivy tenses at the word, surprise, which can mean a lot of things when it comes from Harley’s lips. 

_ Surprise! I’m joining the Legion of Doom, and you’re coming with me. _

_ Surprise! I’ve joined Darkseid, and am now leading a legion of demons that are going to kill and destroy everyone on Earth.  _

_ Surprise! I’m taking over New Gotham and bitches are gonna pay. _

_ Surprise! I’ve Frankensteined a living spaghetti creature for you. _

Nothing good can come of a Harley surprise. Ivy’s lived through enough of them to know to be leery of that word being uttered from her girlfriend’s lips. 

“Surprise!” Harley says with a flourish, and plops something down on Ivy’s lap. Something heavy and warm, and Ivy’s afraid to open her eyes, but she’s more afraid of what will happen if she doesn’t.

Cracking her eyes open, Ivy frowns when she sees a mass of noodles that appear to be held together by cheese and red sauce. There are little bits of black, green and red stuff peppered throughout, and Ivy has flashbacks of the last time Harley tried to make her spaghetti. At least none of the noodles are moving of their own free will, and an experimental stab at the mass proves such movement to be highly unlikely.

“Babe?” Ivy sends Harley a questioning glance. 

“It’s spaghetti!” Harley announces, clearly proud of herself for having successfully made the noodle dish. “Well, pizza spaghetti. Dig in.”

Eyeing the thick pile of noodles warily, Ivy offers Harley as much of a smile as she can muster, and stabs her fork into the noodle heap, only to have her fork bend in a distinctly non-fork fashion. Harley slumps down beside her, poking her own fork into the clump of noodles, only to have her fork twist and bend as well.

“Don’t tell me,” Ivy says as she unsuccessfully tries to extract the forks from the clump of noodles. “You got this recipe from Clayface, didn’t you?”

“He said it would be divine,” Harley says, mimicking their actor friend’s voice. “The nourishment of the gods.”

Ivy snorts, and they both burst into laughter.


	4. The Simplest Recipe For Disaster, Ever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fourth time that Harley decides to make spaghetti for Ivy, she ends up in Arkham Asylum, though only until Ivy breaks her out, so a relatively short time. No time to play the harmonica or get a new tattoo, or start a prison riot. It’s kind of nice for a change.

[ The Simplest Recipe for Disaster, Ever ](https://www.delish.com/cooking/g3086/spaghetti/?slide=49)

“You’re asking ze impossible,” the Italian chef says, throwing his hands in the air in a rather dramatic fashion. “I cannot work under zese conditions.”

“My bat says otherwise,” Harley says, twirling her bat in her hands. 

The chef glares at his captor, and jerks his chin in the direction of a large pot. When Harley just blinks at him, he purses his lips and shakes his head. “Fill ze pot up wiz water.” He mutters something in what Harley assumes is Italian, and continues to shake his head, hands flying everywhere as he talks to himself.

Balancing the bat in one hand, Harley hastens to follow her hostage’s orders as he talks her through what he’s assured her is a simple recipe for spaghetti. A recipe that even she cannot screw up (or at least that’s what she’s led to believe). 

It is, she has to admit to herself, a genius move on her part, kidnapping an Italian chef from the Iceberg Lounge (they only hire the best there, even with the Penguin dead) and making him talk her through the complicated dish. She really wants to make Pammy’s favorite human inspired food at least once, even if it kills her, or the small Italian man who is shouting orders at her. 

She tries to follow the directions, really she does. It’s just that there’s a spider crawling across the ceiling and it’s not easy to understand the chef through his thick accent, and then there’s the problem with the burner that goes kablooey, sending the first pot of noodles and water into the air. Spaghetti noodles vault up to the ceiling where they get stuck. The spider really doesn’t have a chance, and Harley feels a little bad for her.

“Fuck, shit,” Harley says, dabbing at the places where her skin has been hit by scalding water and noodles. The chef is glaring at her as he wipes away a pile of noodles that landed on his head. He is fuming, and red in the face, and Harley doesn’t understand what went wrong.

“Fill ze pot up wiz ze water,” the chef orders, pointing at the pot with a finger that is trembling with suppressed rage. “Zen you put ze noodlez into ze pot. I will turn on ze stove.”

When Harley reaches toward the knob, the chief slaps her hand away and ignores the dark glare she sends his way. 

“I want to do it by myself,” Harley says, wincing at the petulant tone she can hear in her own voice. She sounds like a fucking three year old.

“Get ze water and ze noodlez,” the chef says. He’s got one hand on his hip, an eyebrow raised, and there’s a noodle dangling off of his left ear. 

Harley fills the pot with water and adds the noodles and then the salt. Everything is going swimmingly. 

“So, what’s it like working at the Iceberg Lounge?” Harley asks as she jumps up onto the counter to sit on it, kicking her legs as she waits for the water to boil. It’s boring. 

“Is fine,” the chef says. He’s watching Harley like a hawk, as though he expects the other pot to go flying. “Zey pay very well.”

“Huh,” Harley says, swinging her legs. “So, do you cook a lot of spaghetti? What’s your favorite dish? How often do you work? What’s it like to wear a chef’s hat, do you think that’s why I keep messing up the spaghetti, because I don’t have a chef’s hat?”

“Quiet!” the chef shouts, and he holds his head. “A chef’s hat iz not ze reazon you are not making ze spaghetti correctly,” he says. “It’z because you have no concentration.”

Harely’s shoulders sag, and she frowns. “Mister J used to say the same thing. Well, he used to tell me to shut up, and he used to say things like, Harley,” Harley mimics Joker’s voice. “‘I created you. Poor, sad what’s her name. You’re not a solo act, you’re a sidekick. An afterthought. No one’s ever going to take you seriously. She’s nothing.’” 

“Watch ze noodlez,” the chef says, completely ignoring Harley’s monologue. 

Harley turns toward the pot, and gives the noodles in it an experimental poke. She quickly turns away. “So, uhm...should the noodles be crispy at this point in time?”

A look of alarm crosses the chef’s face as he crosses over to the pot. When he peers into it, he looks from Harley to the pot, and back again.

“How does anyone burn water and noodlez?!” the chef shouts, and he pushes Harley aside to remove the pot from the stove. “Zis is impossible.” He looks at Harley with pity, and shakes his head. 

“I don’t get it. spaghetti iz not zat hard to make,” the Italian chef says, mostly to himself, as he inspects the burnt noodles, most of which are stuck to the bottom of the pot. He turns off the stove, and puts the pot of noodles back onto the burner. 

“Zis is impossible,” the chef whispers.

Harley screams wordlessly and hurls the pot of burnt noodles at the chef’s head, knocking him out cold and kicking him in the stomach for good measure. “Spaghetti is fucking hard to make!”

Harley brings her bat down on the unconscious chef’s back, but before she can bring it down again, her arms are pinned behind her back, and she’s being hauled off, kicking and screaming, by the police.

“What the fuck has gotten into her this time?” one of the cops asks over Harley’s head. 

The other cop shrugs. “Hell if I know.”

“It was supposed to be a surprise!” Harley shouts. “You don’t understand. I was going to make spaghetti. Ivy was going to love it!”

“Tell that to the guards at Arkham,” one of the cops says. 

Harley can’t tell if they are rolling their eyes or not, but she has a sinking suspicion they are. She’ll show them, though when Ivy breaks her out of Arkham. She knows that, unlike the Joker, Ivy won’t let her languish there for a year before busting her out.

“You’re both going to die long, horrible deaths,” Harley says. “I’ll eviscerate you. I’ll make spaghetti of your insides.”

One of the cops laughs. “I’m sure you’ll have better luck with that than you did with making actual spaghetti,” he scoffs. 

“I don’t think you should joke about something like that,” the other cop says. “I mean, this is Harley Quinn we’re talking about here. If she says she’s going to make spaghetti out of your insides, then she’s going to.”

“She’s nothing without the Joker, man,” the other cop says, and those are fighting words if Harley’s ever heard any. 

“Actually, she’s better without the Joker,” the other cop says, and just for that, Harley forgives her. 

“You should ditch the uniform,” Harley says. “Join me and Ivy’s crew.”

“Shut the fuck up, bitch,” the first cop says. “Before I make you.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Harley says. Maybe Ivy won’t have to break her out of Arkham after all.

“Vick, let it go,” the other cop says, and Harley exchanges a secret smile with the woman. She now has a name, and a possible co-conspirator. Things are looking up.

Of course, things aren’t going so hot when the bars to her cell click into place and Harley’s got what she’s certain is a concussion from her failed attempt to knock one of the hardheaded guards out. The blood trickling from her nose, and the pretty dots she sees when she closes her eyes are nothing out of the ordinary. This, she’s used to.

“Ivy, don’t let me down,” Harley whispers into the darkness. “I promise, next time I’ll kidnap one of the Iron Chefs, or maybe that Alton Brown guy. He seems like he’d know how to make a kickass spaghetti.”

There’s a sigh, and Harley smiles in the darkness when she sees the tendril of a plant slip in through the barred window. It caresses her cheek, and then wraps gently around her neck, before slithering down to gather her up in what might be considered a hug. 

“Just promise me one thing,” Ivy says when the plant lifts her up to the window. 

“Anything,” Harley says. 

“No more kidnapping chefs to make me spaghetti,” Ivy says. 

Crossing her fingers behind her back, Harley brandishes her other hand, and makes the sign of a cross over her heart. “Promise.”

There’s another sigh, and Ivy rolls her eyes. “I mean it, Harls. I can’t keep breaking you out of Arkham like this. And you can uncross the fingers you’ve got crossed behind your back.”

“I only did it for you,” Harley says when Ivy breaks the bars with the vines of the plant she’s controlling. 

“I know you did, babe,” Ivy says, reaching for her and pulling her into a kiss that makes Harley see stars, or maybe it’s the concussion that makes her see stars. Or it could be the actual stars that dot the sky.

“I really thought I nailed it this time,” Harley says. “I mean, I had a tutor and everything. I had no trouble making cakes for Joker. It’s just--”

Ivy cuts her rambling off with a kiss, and whisks her away back to their apartment. Of course, not before making a tiny detour to a certain officer’s house along the way. 

“Huh, I guess that does kind of look like spaghetti,” Ivy says when Harley lifts the man’s insides up for her lover to inspect. 

“Totally,” Harley says. She’s smiling, as she pats the dead officer’s cheek. “Told ya I’d make spaghetti outta ya. Maybe I missed my calling in life.”

She laughs, and Ivy rolls her eyes. “Let’s go home.”

Home. No place Harley would rather be, now that she’s got Ivy in her life. And, the next time she makes spaghetti, she’s gonna kill at it. Well, maybe not kill, kill, but who knows with her track record.


	5. Spag...Spagh...Spaghet...Hic...Spaghettini

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fifth time that Harley attempts to make spaghetti for Ivy, she has a little help from a friend, and a bottle of vodka, some rum, some wine spritzers, oh fuck it, there’s a lot of drinking involved.

[ Spag...Spagh...Spaghet...Hic...Spaghettini ](https://www.delish.com/cooking/g3086/spaghetti/?slide=33)

“So, Ivy told me that you are having a little trouble in the kitchen,” Jennifer says. She’s sipping a martini (her fourth one of the morning), and Harley snags the olive, popping it into her mouth and chewing it a little more aggressively than is warranted. She’s not jealous of Jennifer.

“I do just fine in the kitchen, thank you very much,” Harley says. Okay, so maybe she is a little jealous of Ivy’s friend from kindergarten, no matter that Jennifer is married, has children, and has a life outside of Gotham.

Jennifer laughs, and takes a sip of her martini. She sways a little as she leans forward. Her breath smells like juniper, and wet socks. Harley’s nose wrinkles, and she takes a step back.

“Spaghetti monster,” she says, raising a finger, “ruined couch,” another finger is raised, along with an eyebrow, “rocks au sauce,” another finger goes up, and Harley wants to break it, “and chef boy-arkum.”

Harley blows a hair out of her face, and puts her hands on her hips. “I suppose that you think you can do better than me.”

Jennifer laughs, and nods, nearly falling flat on her face. She hiccoughs. “You bet your tight little booty I can.” She pokes a finger in Harley’s chest, and Harley fights the urge to bite it right off. No way is she going to maim one of Ivy’s only childhood friends that she still kind of likes. Ivy’s list of humans she doesn’t feel like killing is very slim. And besides, it’s Christmas. Time of good cheer and all that.

“I’ll,” hic, “I’ll show you how to make some damn spa-” hic “ghetti,” burp. 

Harley waves a hand in front of her face, and tries to breathe through her mouth, because Jennifer is potent. 

“Here,” Jennifer says, shoving the martini glass at Harley who barely manages to grasp it in time. “Drink that.”

Shrugging, Harley drinks it. “Now what?” 

“Now, we need more alcohol,” Jennifer says. “Where’s your kitchen?”

“We’re in the kitchen,” Harley says, leaning back against the counter, and crossing her arms over her chest. 

Jennifer blinks and turns around the room to inspect it. She nods slowly, and then claps her hands. “We need a pot, some wine, noddles,” her nose wrinkles, and she shakes her head, “doondles...noondles...noodles! And toma-toes. You know, those round red squishy things that you get from the grocery store.”

“Just how much have you had to drink?” Harley asks as she pulls a large pot out of a cupboard, grabs a box of noodles and a bottle of wine. 

“Not nearly enough,” Jennifer says. “Clayface!” she calls, and the bard appears in the kitchen, bowing slightly. He’s fashioned himself into a young man. He’s dressed in a red suit, and looks rather dashing. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure of being beckoned by such a lovely young woman as yourself?” Clayface asks. 

Giggling, Jennifer blushes, and Harley rolls her eyes. 

“She needs another drink,” Harley says, before things can get even more awkward between them. 

“We  _ both _ need another drink,” Jennifer says. “If we’re going to do this correctly,” she adds. “Bring on the brandy, the vodka, the wine, and the beer, bring on the wine spritzers, and the eggnog. Now off with you.” She turns Clayface around and gives him a gentle shove out the door.

“Where were we?” Jennifer asks after a moment. “Oh, yeah, wine. Pour the wine into the pot.”

“All of it?” Harley asks, skeptically. 

Jennifer nods. “You want to do this right, don’t you?”

Nodding, Harley opens the wine and pours the entire bottle into the pot.

“Now, we need a drink,” Jennifer says, and she grabs a bottle of vodka from Clayface, and shoves it at Harley. 

“Nora, keep Ivy busy while we cook,” Harley pleads when the other woman walks into the kitchen. “Please?”

“Fine,” Nora says, “but you owe me, and don’t forget that you already owe me for the time you killed my husband.”

One bottle of vodka, two wine spritzers, a half a dozen beers, and countless cups of eggnog later, Harley, Jennifer, a very amused Clayface, and his plus one, have a pot filled with spaghetti noodles and wine, whole cloves of garlic (with the skin still on), an onion, tomatoes crushed with their bare feet, because Harley wanted to recreate the “I Love Lucy” episode where Lucy stomped on the grapes. Which consisted (mostly) of Harley and Jennifer falling on their asses while Clayface and Chad recorded everything and laughed their heads off. 

It’s into this general state of chaos that Ivy, Nora and King Shark walk into when they enter the kitchen (forty-five minutes after Nora was sent to distract Ivy). Harley’s slumped on the floor, a wine-soaked noodle dangling from her nose, bare feet stained red from tomato stomping, one arm slung over a sleeping Jennifer’s shoulders, and the other cradling a bottle of vodka like a baby. 

“Hey, babe,” Harley says, slurring the words. She tries to smile, but ends up frowning instead. “I think I killed the pasghetti.” 

She bursts into tears, and hugs the bottle of vodka close to her chest. 

“Oh, babe,” Ivy says, kneeling beside her distraught girlfriend. She tries not to laugh when Harley starts stroking the bottle of vodka and kisses it. 

“It’s okay,” she assures Harley, removing the noodle from Harley’s nose, kissing it, which makes Harley sneeze. “I still love you.”


	6. Spaghetti is a Bitch Best Served Warm, Or Maybe Not At All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How does that saying go? The sixth time's the charm?

[ Spaghetti is a Bitch ](https://www.delish.com/cooking/g3086/spaghetti/?slide=32)

“No,” Harley says, kicking out at Batman because her hands were full with takeout. “You are _ not  _ going to ruin this for me, Batman. Why don’t you go fuck a bat, or play hide and seek with Robin. I think he could use some quality bat daddy time.”

Batman growls out something that may or may not have been regarding bats and fucking and Robin issues. Harley does  _ not _ have time for this. It’s not like she even did anything wrong. Well, nothing wrong enough to warrant a visit from the brooding Bat.

“Just tell me where Joker is,” Batman growls. 

“Does everything that comes out of your mouth need to be a growl?” Harley asks, blowing a lock of hair out of her eye. “Seriously. And how the fuck would I know? Didn’t you get that memo? The one that said, Harley and the Joker have broken up? Called it quits? Parted ways? Are no longer fucking together?”

Batman just stands there. Maybe he blinks. It’s impossible to tell what happens underneath the cowl that he wears, and the impenetrable armor. Is he really that muscular, or is it the suit?

“I had not heard,” Batman says, which is completely absurd, because he sounds truly baffled and as though he  _ should _ have heard, which, well, he should have. All of Gotham knew about it. He sounds a little...regretful? Hopeful?

Harley laughs. “Well, let me be the first to tell you, then, Bats. Joker and I are no longer together. I’m with Ivy. It’s our one year anniversary, and if you don’t mind, I’d like to get home so that we can celebrate.”

Batman frowns, and Harley almost feels bad for him. If he wasn’t such a brooding, stick up the ass, tool with a hardon for criminals, she might even feel a touch of sympathy for him. 

“Don’t worry,” Harley says, the psychologist in her coming to the fore. “It’s all good. And when Joker gets bored of leading the domestic life, I’m sure he’ll hit you up again, and it’ll be like old times. The two of you beating the shit out of each other when you should really be kissing, or you know, fucking, like two mature, consenting adults, who wear costumes, but swear they aren’t into cosplay when they really are. I mean, it’s pretty clear that you’ve got a clown fetish, and Mr. J’s gotta bat kink.”

“I do not have a clown fetish,” Batman growls a little defensively.

“Whatever, I don’t have the time to psychoanalyze you right now,” Harley says. “Food’s gettin’ cold an’ my girlfriend’s waiting.”

When Batman just stands there, staring off into some kind of middle space, Harley takes that as her cue to leave. She pats Batman on the gauntlet closest to her, and gives him a tiny wave as she skips away. She thinks she hears the normally stoic man mutter something as she leaves. It’s lost on the wind, though, and she really doesn’t have the time necessary to help the man inside the bat suit sort out his shit. 

When Harley slips into their newest (hopefully permanent-ish) apartment, Ivy is out on their balcony, babying her plants, which is perfect. It’ll give her the time she needs to put together her surprise for Ivy, in spite of her holdup with the Bat. 

She hums to herself as she bustles about the kitchen, moving the shrimp scampi spaghetti she’d bought at the prestigious Bamonte’s Restaurant, to a pot, the cheesy garlic bread to an oven warmed plate (something she’d learned from watching some Martha Stewart thing on the internet), and the sfogliatella (which Harley bought only because it means small leaf - according the head pastry chef) to what Martha Stewart (in all her infinite wisdom) had assured her (via the internet) were dessert plates. Shrugging, because they look like ordinary plates, just smaller, Harley smiles and nearly jumps a foot when Ivy loops an arm around her waist and presses a kiss to the back of her neck.

“What’s all this?” Ivy asks. 

“It was supposed to be a surprise,” Harley says, pouting just a little because she hadn’t had time to dispose of the evidence. Bamonte containers were strewn across the marble countertop.

Ivy trails kisses from the back of Harley’s neck, to her shoulder, before turning her around and kissing her on the lips. 

“You’re all I need,” she says, and Harley’s heart hammers in her chest. She can feel heat rising to her cheeks.

Ivy’s eyes are dark, and there’s no mistaking the lust in her eyes for anything else. Harley’s breath catches in her throat. She swallows.

“The food will get cold,” she says, nearly kicking herself, because there’s more to a one year anniversary than warm spaghetti and sweet sfogliatella. 

“I never really cared for spaghetti,” Ivy confesses, licking at the shell of Harley’s ear, and nibbling on the lobe.

Blinking, Harley pushes back a little, mouth gaping. She slaps Ivy on the arm, and frowns. “What do you mean, you never really cared for spaghetti?”

Sighing, Ivy rakes a hand through her hair. “I mean, I don’t really like spaghetti. It makes me think of worms.”

“What the actual fuck?!” Harley slaps Ivy again, and crosses her arms. “Then what was that at The Penguin’s nephew’s bar mitzvah? You were all over that spaghetti like a horny teenager on a first date.”

Ivy’s eyes light up, and some of Harley’s anger over having spent the past year trying to make the perfect spaghetti for the love of her life, only to have it constantly blow up in her face. 

“What’s that look for?”

“I’m surprised you remembered,” Ivy says, and there are tears in her eyes that make Harley melt. 

“Of course I remembered,” Harley says, reaching out to cup Ivy’s cheek. “I remember everything about our time together.”

Ivy sniffs, and Harley pulls her close. “No one’s ever done that for me before,” she admits in a soft voice.

“Remembered?” Harley asks. 

Shaking her head, Ivy rolls her eyes. “No. I mean, no one’s ever cared enough to fail at making spaghetti for me over and over again because they saw me pile it on my plate at some spoiled brat’s coming out party.”

“Why didn’t you stop me?” Harley asks.

Ivy shrugs. “It seemed to make you happy?”

“I love you,” Harley says, kissing her. 

“I love you more,” Ivy says.


	7. Epilogue: Rumination Syndrome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes food comes creeping back up on you. Or in this case, it comes back to invade your personal space and make itself at home.

Just as things start to get a bit steamy between the pair, there’s a loud thumping at their front door. They groan, and move out of the kitchen just in time to see a tendril of spaghetti ooze through the door.

“We’re not getting our deposit back, are we?” Harley says as the spaghetti creature steals across the floor. 

“I guess we should let it in and see what it wants? I mean, I kind of feel a little responsible for it. You know, in a nonparental kind of way,” Ivy says. 

“You should have stopped me after my first failed attempt at making spaghetti,” Harley says, as she picks her way across the floor, careful not to step on any spaghetti noodle tendrils. 

“Yeah, but it was kind of cute the way you were so determined to make it right, and I didn’t want to stomp all over that,” Ivy says. 

They both look at each other, and nod, then fling the front door open, ready to face Harley’s first foray in the kitchen. The spaghetti creature has grown since they’d last seen it, and it smiles at them, the meatball eyes moving around, taking in the new surroundings as it oozes into the apartment. 

It reaches out for Harley, hugging her with an arm made completely out of spaghetti noodles, and then hugs Ivy as well, making both women coo.

“We are not keeping it,” Ivy declares, but then it makes this little sad sound, and she knows that they’re going to have to change apartments again, because they will definitely need a nursery for the spaghetti monster.

Smiling, and no doubt reading Ivy’s thoughts, Harley says, “How does the name Gnocci, or Orzo, or...”

“Ravi,” Ivy says, and the creature’s eyes zero in on her. She smiles and pats it on what might be the head or maybe it’s the shoulder or the ass, but she can’t be sure. It makes a sound that’s halfway between gurgling and slurping that might mean happiness, or it could mean that it’s got indigestion. Either way, it’s adorable, in a totally disgustingly cute kind of way.

“Ravi Isley-Quinn,” Harley says. 

“We’re gonna need a bigger apartment,” Ivy says.

“We’re gonna need more spaghetti,” Harley says as Ravi makes its way to the kitchen far quicker than one would think possible, and devours the shrimp scampi spaghetti in one swallow. It grows a little, even as it spits out the shrimp and belches.

“And some nose plugs. Fuck,” Ivy says, plugging her nose. Harley gags. Ravi slumps down, content to sit in the kitchen while its moms open every window in the apartment to air it out.


End file.
